Bound for Home (Tyler Cunningham Shorts) by Jamie Sheffield Page B

forward a bit and paused, waiting for pity/clarity/comfort … something. I ran through the most likely options, based on what I had seen people do in similar situations, and reached out tentatively to pat his shoulder … four times. I must have guessed correctly, or at least acceptably, because he breathed out … relaxed a bit.
    “Tell me about it.” I asked, hoping that more information/background would help me understand what had happened that resulted in the derailing of first my nap, and then my verbal eviction notice.
    “ Sophia’s classes at North Country ( Community College, the SUNY college campus in Saranac Lake, NY ) finished over a month ago, and she was lookin’ for some kinda job with her friends. She found a hippie farm out in Gabriels … fell in love with the people, the lil’ goats, the LAND, doing ‘honest’ work, she says. Room and board and a small stipend, she says. She can stay for free in my house ‘til the end of time I say, but she wants this. We argued, she said OK, but she moved out a month ago … she must have waited until I went out … she took some-a her clothes from my house and left everything else. I haven’t heard from her since. I went out to the farm yesterday, my birthday, which she never misses, and the guy at the gate by the road won’t let me in, says she don’t wanna talk to me.” He finished, and went through the cigarette ritual again ( patting for them in all of his pockets, pulling out the crumpled pack, looking around for an ashtray ). This time when I grabbed his empty can from the recycling, I also grabbed a pair of Cokes from the tiny student fridge, and sat back down … opening the first can as he lit up.
    The C okes were both for me. Maurice apparently only drinks coffee and wine, so after his first few visits, I ceased all attempts at playing host ( as I don’t do hot drinks or alcohol ). I had the tiny fridge turned as cold as it would go, but it couldn’t chill the Cokes quite enough for my liking … they were still good, and helped bring me fully awake.
    “Do you think they took her, or that they’re holding her against her will?” I ask ed, not really knowing what to do regardless of his answers to either of my questions … hoping that more information would bring things into focus, and allow me to see through the static of people and emotions to the clarity of an answer. I live in a godless world, but worship information and patterns and clarity and answers.
    “Nah, she wanted to go … she wants to be there.” He answered simply … no clarity for me yet.
    “Did you have an idea that I could help, Maurice?” One of the useful things about not understanding human artifice is that I tend to cut through the awkward waiting and misdirection that most humans seem to thrive on ( or at least need in order to communicate ).
    Maurice looked pained at the direct route I had taken. He must have had an elaborate back and forth in mind, involving cigarettes and Gallic shrugs and grunts and both of us observing the niceties of conversational rules which I had never understood. He sighed and nodded at me through a cloud of smoke and skipped ahead to rejoin the conversation.
    “ Yah, I was hoping that you could go out and talk to this guy at the gate, to these people, to my Sophia … to make sure that she’s OK, and … also … to talk her out of living out at that hippie farm.”
    “Why do you imagine that I could do that if you couldn’t Maurice? She’s not my granddaughter, I’m not a cop, why would she listen to me, even if I could get passed the guy ( guard? Why have a guard for a hippie farm … more on that later … maybe ) at the gate.” I passed the conversational ball gently, but firmly, back to him.
    Maurice puffed on the tiny remain der of his cigarette hurriedly, three times, before responding. I could see him thinking about how to answer … and also how to answer without a fifteen minute preamble.
    “I lost my head a lit tle bit